


The Flower Shop

by muse_oleum



Category: Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: (unless i cave in first who knows), Eventual Smut, Fluff, Kingsman: The Golden Circle - Freeform, Kingsman: The Secret Service, Love, OC, Series, Sex, but not yet, female oc - Freeform, harry hart - Freeform, kingsman - Freeform, original series posted on Tumblr first, the flower shop, this one is a slow burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-06
Updated: 2021-01-06
Packaged: 2021-03-17 10:01:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28598109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/muse_oleum/pseuds/muse_oleum
Summary: Harry Hart feels out of place after recovering his memory and struggling to recover his sense of belonging. That is, until a certain florist catches his eye…
Relationships: Harry Hart | Galahad/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 8





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: 1. have not read the original comics 2. in no way am i claiming ownership of the characters, except my OCs obvs 3. this actually has a plot line somewhere i promise

* * *

Harry didn’t know what to do.

Here she was, the woman he’d been seeking out every day of the week at her little flower shop down the street, laughing jovially with one of his fellow agents. Just _how_ she’d come to be at the same party both of them were undercover at, Harry really couldn’t imagine. 

He gulped down his martini, deciding that lurking in the corner probably wasn’t the best course of action anyways.

Exchanging glances with Percival, he made his way towards the drink table, under the pretense of refilling his martini – which he had no intention of doing – before engaging conversation.

That’s about when it all went tits up.

❀❀❀❀❀❀

_A year and bit earlier…_

He stared in the mirror at nothing in particular, but especially avoiding looking at his missing eye.

Harry Hart was not a vain man; he had never been aware of just how charismatic he could be, or even how people seemed to simultaneously trust and be terrified by him. He’d never considered his appearance anything of great importance and, indeed, Lancelot was the one Chester King sent on honeypot missions. Because he _was_ vain, and that served everyone just fine.

Harry missed him terribly sometimes, just as he missed other agents from his youth. Thankfully, Merlin had survived their latest encounter with Poppy Adams – by a hair, but he had – and so Harry was spared the pain of mourning yet another friend.

Which, incidentally, meant he had a lot more time to mourn for himself. For the loss of his eye, his reflexes, his confidence, and his happiness. 

Before Valentine, before the church in Kentucky, he’d had a sense of purpose which brought him happiness: he knew that what he was doing was saving someone, somewhere, and that was enough. But not anymore. 

Harry couldn’t lie to himself anymore: he was no longer happy doing what he was doing, and his sense of purpose had disappeared when that bullet went through his brain. 

With a heavy sigh, Harry resumed shaving, pushing dark thoughts aside and focusing on the day ahead. He had a meeting with Eggsy and Merlin to discuss where to rebuild the new Kingsman HQ, and a general briefing with their new Arthur. Likelihood was he’d get a mission off somewhere, and he wasn’t particularly looking forward to that.

With his own house and the old HQ destroyed by Poppy’s missiles, he was, essentially, without a permanent home. He’d been staying at this hotel in the center of the town, but he was longing for a sense of home.

He was longing for a great many things, come to think of it.

Harry Hart wasn’t used to that feeling of emptiness, and he didn’t know how to mend it, or indeed, what truly caused it.

“ _Enough_!” he growled under his breath. The razor clanked on the sink where he let it fall. Staring at himself in the mirror, adjusting his glasses, Harry quickly scanned his appearance. 

Grey suit – his trademark – with a pinstripe tie, glasses and umbrella at the ready, he was looking at the agent Galahad of old. That comforted him.

The matter of his code name was yet undecided. For now, Eggsy still went as Galahad, and, in a manner of speaking so did Harry, but as agent Tequila had said back in the US, it truly was fucking confusing.

For once London had decided not to align with most of its dwellers’ dark winter thoughts, and was instead sporting a bright sunshine, in an early announcement for the spring to come. Harry decided to walk for a while before taking a taxi to the makeshift HQ (another hotel owned by the agency.)

Taking in the sun and the chirping of some early birds warmed him up a little, his long trench coat brushing against his umbrella suddenly more inconvenient than anything else.

Just as he was taking his coat off, he noticed a small shop opening. He frowned, trying to remember if he’d seen that shop before, because he was sure he would have remembered the beautiful English primroses and purple pansies displayed on the window sill.

He stopped by, just to admire the small hellebore growing in a pot beside them, he heard the telltale dingdong of the little bell attached to the door. A chirpy “Good morning!” accompanied by the flash of a lovely smile greeted him as he was about to enter. Harry could only assume that she was the shopkeeper, and answered with a small smile of his own.

“It is a rather good morning,” he readily acknowledged. 

She was arranging yet another batch of small winter blooms on the window sill, and he moved aside to make more room for her.

There was a silence before she looked up at him, the hint of that lovely smile still on her lips.

“Can I help you with anything?”

Harry blinked, nodding. 

“Looking to buy some flowers to live out the rest of the winter? If so, I’ve just got a new batch of kaffir lilies in a superb shade of red.”

She had a sing-song voice, dark curls and big brown eyes – and seemingly never tired of sporting that smile, because it was quite literally blooming across her face.

Harry had definitely not planned on buying flowers and he was on his way to work. But, somehow, he found it hard to refuse the pull of some much needed color in his room.

“I was actually on my way to work,” he said, “but if you’d tell me at what time you’re planning on closing, then perhaps I could pop by at the end of the day?”

“To work?” she frowned, “who goes to work on a Sunday?”

Harry smiled, gesturing about to her banks of flowers. She chuckled.

“I’m a florist, that doesn’t count. And to answer your question, I’ll be open until 6 this evening, but I can leave some out on the window sill if you can’t make it?”

Harry looked at this strange creature who, for some reason, was already making his day a little bit brighter, and happily agreed. 6 or later on the windowsill _did_ sound good.

* * *


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: 1. have not read the original comics 2. in no way am i claiming ownership of the characters, except my OCs obvs 3. this actually has a plot line somewhere i promise

* * *

Harry missed his butterflies. 

They’d been his only source of companionship during all these months spent in a cell, drawing them away as his memory kept hiding from him. 

He’d first started to see them a couple days after waking up. Ginger had brought him some sketchbooks, at his request, and she’d stayed to have a quick chat. But she was a secret agent; he couldn’t expect her to stay forever. 

The butterflies that had been fluttering about her head stayed on even after she left. He’d been fascinated by the shimmer on their wings, covered in tiny colorful scales. 

That’s when he’d started to draw them. 

He’d kept on doing so even after recovering his memories. Now, instead of pinned butterflies, the walls of his suite were covered in drawings. Hundreds of them. And he liked them all, even if they reminded him of a painful time.

Harry didn’t think he could have felt more alone than he had during those months, but he did. At least, back then, he was alone, but he fitted in. He felt alive in his strange fluttering world full of his winged friends.

Now, he didn’t see them anymore.

The rather abrupt stop of the cab shook him out of his reverie. 

He’d asked the driver to stop by the small flower shop he’d stopped by in the morning. He had left work early enough to get there before 6, hoping to catch a glimpse of the kind woman who had made his morning feel a little better. 

Harry looked at his watch as he stepped onto the pavement. 5.45 pm. Perfect. 

He hesitated at the door, before pulling it open. 

It was if he’d stepped into an evergreen wonderland. 

Flowers seemed to grow out of the walls and between the tiles on the floor. Plants covered wooden shelves running across the entire wall on his right; and the left wall was buried underneath heaps of hanging flower pots. The mix of all these different scents should have been overpowering, but instead was strangely calming. The large wooden table occupied much of the interior, although Harry would have struggled to tell what kind of wood, since it was littered with more flowers than he’d seen in his life. 

The song of the doorbell alerted the shopkeeper, and she made her way towards him, zigzagging between plant pots. Not a leaf trembled when she passed it, as if the air did not move around her but _with_ her. 

“Made it, then?” she said. “That was a long day for a Sunday.” 

Harry smiled. His shyness around women was, according to Merlin, legendary. Even if he’d had his fair share of flings in his youth, he had never been much of a casanova (contrary to Lancelot, who was usually the main orchestrator behind each of said flings.)

“We usually do quite a bit of work on Sundays, at the tailor shop.” 

“Oh, so that’s where you work? I’ve been trying to work that out all day.”

Curious, Harry followed her as she led him to the back of the shop. 

“Why?” 

If his question was abrupt, she did not appear to notice. Or, if she did, she made nothing of it. She shrugged, before answering:

“You don’t typically see such well-outfitted gentlemen around here. Mostly businessmen wearing the same suit in varying shades of “look at me, I’m rich.”” 

Harry chuckled, wondering if he should tell her that his suit alone probably cost more than any of those businessmen’s cars. But then again, that would mean explaining the whole mechanics behind bulletproof technology and even Merlin couldn’t do _that_ in fifteen minutes. 

“Here! That’s where I keep the plants that aren’t on view yet. Now, how about you tell me what you’d like?” 

“Why none of these?” Harry asked, gesturing to the shop behind him.

“Well, you didn’t stop for any of these.”

She was smiling. That same lovely smile which had stopped him this morning. Her dimples were even more prominent in the dim evening light, lending her an air of mischief that he was sure was well deserved. 

Harry regained his train of thoughts, realizing he hadn’t answered her question. 

“I… I’m not sure? I’ve never been shopping for plants.” 

Just as he said it, he realized how utterly odd that was. For a butterfly man not to know his flowers? _Ludicrous_. He’d have to remedy that. 

He felt a thrill of excitement at the idea of an evening spent researching butterflies again. 

“Well, what are you looking for?” 

Unexpectedly, her question stirred something deep inside of him. 

Hadn’t he been asking himself the exact same question for months? Wasn’t it exactly the reason why he had decided to walk instead of getting a cab right away? 

Truth was, Harry didn’t know what it was that he was looking for. All he had originally wanted was a sense of belonging, a sense of _home_.

He figured flowers were company, and maybe they would attract his lost butterfly friends again. 

He met her eyes shyly, finding her looking up at him, an inviting look in her eyes. 

“It’s not a trick question.” 

Her voice was very soft, reassuring almost. Her smile had dimmed to a small, tender, expression. She broke eye contact just as he was about to speak, disappearing into the doorway.

“Come in!” came her voice from behind the wall. He could hear her move pots around and gravel rolling on the ground. “Or rather, come out, I should say.”

Harry poked his head through the doorway, squinting to find her in the darkness. A clock hanging by his head struck six, its chimes announcing the coming of evening and its chill. She didn’t seem to hear it. 

“You looked sad, this morning, so perhaps those would brighten your days somewhat?” 

She held the first camelias of the year, their soft shade of pink shimmering in the evening light. The whole backyard, covered in flowers, plants, and tools, seemed covered in dew, as if time had stood still and morning had never passed. 

She handed him his flowers, closing the door to a shed he hadn’t seen before. It looked like a mix between your regular backyard shed, and a broken down hothouse. There were holes ripped into its flank, but the flowers sheltered inside still seemed to thrive. 

Harry was sure she must have fairy hands. 

“There you go. They’ll be better at yours than here, I still haven’t found the time to repair my shed, as you can see.” 

She looked behind her, murmuring softly:

“I hope my plants won’t die before I can get to it.”

Harry did not wish to intrude further, conscious of the time and the chill. He got his wallet out of his coat pocket. She stared back at him, leveling her arched eyebrows at him. 

“I didn’t ask for any money.” 

Her tone brooked no arguments, and so, wisely, Harry did not argue. But he still wanted to offer some sort of payment. 

“How about I come fix your shed instead?” 

She looked at him, a hopeful glint in her eyes even as she shook her head in refusal. Harry raised his free hand, smiling at her divided expression.

“It’s that or money.”

She huffed, chuckling, before finally agreeing. 

Just as he turned to leave, she asked:

“I never got your name?”

He flushed, grateful for the dark. 

“Harry. Harry Hart.”

She smiled, her dimples making a fierce comeback. 

“I’m Rebecca.” 

* * *


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: 1. have not read the original comics 2. in no way am i claiming ownership of the characters, except my OCs obvs 3. this actually has a plot line somewhere i promise

* * *

The camelias shivered in the evening wind. By their place on the windowsill, they overlooked the entire room, with its large bed, desk and the man sitting there. 

Harry’s books and notebooks had all been lost when his house was bombed to the ground, so he’d had to start again. Over the course of the past few weeks, he had purchased several anthologies and was still looking for new publications on the subject of entomology. 

He missed his old notebooks, relying entirely on the scribbled pages of the battered pad he’d used during his time away. 

Harry rarely referred to his time as an amnesiac entomologist as anything else except his “time away.” He was still grappling with the strange sensation of having recovered his life but he wasn’t so sure now, after so many months wishing for freedom to go find his butterflies, which life he wanted to lead. 

Kingsman had been his home for decades, ever since he’d left the army to become a secret agent. But before that? He’d been so invested in becoming an entomologist that it almost surrounded him in a shroud of wing dust for the rest of his career. His home was full of them; his head was full of them; and his heart was full of them. 

None of his friends had ever understood his passion for the small insects. To be honest, Harry himself did not understand it fully.

His father had been very fond of gardening, and his mother never allowed him to squash any insects he found in his room. Even if it was the biggest spider in the world - at least to the eyes of a little boy - she would just pick it up in a tissue and let it free outside. He had always supposed his interest came from them. But now, looking back on how he had cleaved to his ephemeral friends, he wondered if the root for his interest did not run deeper. 

Perhaps he was fascinated by their transience? The manner in which their sense of purpose carried them to their death? He envied that. The whole of the animal kingdom, except humans, seemed to have a purpose. Harry had lost his and didn’t know how to regain it. 

Sighing, he turned off the nightstand lamp, plunging the room into darkness. Before falling asleep, he remembered his promise to Rebecca to come fix her garden shed. A small smile tugged at the corners of his lips. At least, he had that to look forward to tomorrow. 

_Monday —-, 9 a.m_

The chime of the doorbell accompanied Harry’s entrance into the flower shop. At the end of a cold February month, the sight of so many blooms was a welcome start to his day. 

“You’re an early riser!” 

Rebecca stood at her cluttered counter, snipping twigs off small branches. Harry watched, strangely fascinated, as she arranged them in an elegant bouquet. She seemed to know just where to place them. 

“It’s for a wedding,” she said, matter of factly. “Apparently, the bride is fond of forest weddings and decided to go for a woodland theme.”

“A forest wedding in February? Good luck to them.”

Her singsong laugh echoed through the shop. 

“Yes, the groom seemed rather resigned, poor chap. Let me just finish with this one and then we can go look at the shed.” 

Harry followed, calling after her, “I didn’t bring any tools, I hope you’ve got something I can work with?”

Rebecca popped her head out of the shed. “Come and have a look for yourself. It’s in quite a state, but it still stands. My dad was strangely proud of that.” 

Harry fit his broad-shouldered frame inside the small shed as best he could without towering above her. Rebecca caught his eye as he attempted to squeeze himself in, chuckling slightly.

The shed was small, built out of wood that had begun rotting many years ago. Daylight filtered through cracks along the walls and dust shimmered in the air. In the corner, a box of tools, its bright red colour contrasting strangely with its surroundings, was waiting patiently for its next use. Rebecca had arranged a large pile of fresh wood and wooden panels next to it, probably to restore the cracked walls. 

“It’s dismal, I know, but the roof is still in a really good state so i’d hate it to collapse entirely.” 

Harry gently pushed against the walls. The wood cracked and moaned but it held. The problem was the rot, which had weakened the overall structure. 

“I’m afraid if you want it to stand for any number of years, we have to tear it down completely first. The wood is rotting. Best to rebuild entirely.” 

Rebecca nodded, biting her lips nervously. 

“I don’t want to ask you to do that, I thought it just needed a few repairs. But tearing it down and rebuilding it is a job for my brother; he loves to demolish things to rebuild them.” 

A small part of Harry’s heart - which he refused to acknowledge - rebelled at the idea. 

“Nonsense, I said I’d help and I will. We will just need _a lot_ more wood than that.”

_Wednesday, some weeks later —-, 6 pm_

Dropping by Rebecca’s shop had become part of Harry’s routine. Nearly everyday after work, he’d go in, buy a few flowers and go. Every weekend, he’d drop by and work on the shed. He was grateful for the distraction it provided and, slowly, began to acknowledge that Rebecca had wormed her way into his heart. 

Harry Hart had never dared to think too much about love. The Kingsman code was explicit: no attachments, no weaknesses. Eggsy and, on occasion, Merlin, had expressed how incredibly stupid and bigoted the Gentleman Guide was but the former Arthur had been uncompromising. 

Kingsman was slowly adapting and changing, especially after Poppy’s missile catastrophe. A new Arthur had yet to be found but under the capable supervision of the older agents, amongst which Harry and Merlin, the newer recruits were coming into their own. Kingsman was still not operating at full capacity, what with the HQ and the London shop in ruins, but it was getting there. 

Exhausted, Harry shook out his umbrella outside the shop before coming in, tucking it neatly in a corner. It had been a long day: recruits to assess, Merlin to check on (he was adjusting to his wheelchair but threw a few dignified Scottish tantrums along the way) and paperwork to work through. 

The smell of freshly cut flowers greeted him and, immediately, he felt better. March had brought an early spring and the blooms were peeking shyly from under their green little sprouts. 

Harry heard a commotion in the back room and, nerves on alert, made his way slowly towards the garden. Carefully popping his head in, he saw Rebecca, on the ground, looking under the sofa and murmuring soft words of encouragement. Eventually, a small kitten emerged, sniffing her fingers curiously. He meowed a few times, noticing Harry by the door, and meowed even louder, asking for food. 

“I believe this little lad is hungry.” 

Rebecca gasped, nearly bumping her head on the sofa. 

“Harry! You scared the living daylights out of me!” 

He held his hands up, taking one step in, chuckling slightly. 

“My apologies. You looked terribly busy.” 

The shabby little cat, meanwhile, completely disinterested in the antics of those two humans, had made his way towards the kitchen, no doubt drawn to the smell of soup hanging in the air. One or two loud meows later, a large bowl full of ham and leftover meat had been placed for him by the table and he happily forgot all about everything else. 

“I found him in the street this afternoon. It was cold and he was shivering and crying, so I brought him in. He wasn’t a fan of being carried somewhere new and he hid under that couch for a solid hour before you came in.” 

“Well, he’s one lucky cat.” 

Rebecca laughed softly and shook her head, her long curls bouncing around her forehead. Harry resisted the urge to tuck one behind her ear. Tying an apron around her waist, she made her way towards the stove to check on the soup. 

Harry observed her, sleeves rolled up to reveal creamy skin, feet tapping lightly to no rhythm in particular, curls pinned up by a clip, out of the way. He felt his heart give a little tug and, unable to stop himself, took a few steps towards her. 

She didn’t seem to notice, absorbed in diagnosing what exactly was missing from the soup. The warm smell of tomatoes made Harry’s mouth water. He could tell what was missing from that distance. 

“Have you added basil?”

She looked up at him, noticing his closeness, and a pretty blush spread over her cheeks. She tasted one more spoonful before smiling broadly, dashing out of the door and back again. She came back with a shriek, shaking the droplets out of her hair. Harry couldn’t contain his smile. 

Suddenly, as she was taking off her boots, a sparkling flash of blue caught Harry’s eye. Looking more closely, he froze. There were two blue butterflies, Adonis blues, flying around her head. One settled into the mass of pinned curls, the other kept looking for a perch. 

Harry’s heart soared. how he had missed his butterflies! Their gentle movements mesmerized him and, unconsciously, he took a step forward. He didn’t notice the curious look Rebecca shot him when he reached up to touch one of the butterflies. She didn’t stop him, didn’t move, as if she knew something was happening that she couldn’t see. 

Harry felt the flutter of the butterfly’s wings on his fingers and smiled. Rebecca had never seen him smile like that before. He had _never_ smiled happily, always offered small, sad, smiles. She wondered what it was that made him so happy tonight. 

The moment ended when their eyes met, Harry blushing furiously and taking a step back; Rebecca reaching up to touch her hair, her blush deeper than before. 

“I’m sorry, I-”

“I’ve never seen you smile like that.” 

Her tone was curious, not displeased. Harry couldn’t help but answer honestly: 

“There were butterflies around your head. Blue ones. I’ve always loved blue butterflies.” 

Rebecca frowned slightly. Butterflies? In this season? Surely that was impossible, and she would have seen them. Harry lowered his eyes to the ground, realizing how utterly mad that must have sounded. He was ready to take his leave when she said: 

“I love blue butterflies too.” 

* * *


End file.
